


Hush

by lar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming of Age, First Love, Kidlock, M/M, Mutual Pining, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lar/pseuds/lar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock watch each other through the years across the narrow fence that separates their family homes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Under the Eye of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo!
> 
> This fic is finished and only some polishing needs to be done on the remaining chapters. They will be posted fairly quickly.  
> A huge thank you to my awesome betas [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm) and [Victoria](http://trunquility.tumblr.com/) for helping me make this look like an actual fic.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Comments of any sort are always welcome!

_Sherlock Holmes (5)_

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in his mother’s beloved flowerbed, well aware that he would be told off later for getting his shorts dirty and ruining the flowers. He didn’t care one bit. He was cross with his mother anyhow. Perhaps having to clean up after him would teach her who the boss was. Well, truthfully, his heart ached a bit at the destruction of the innocent plants, but needs must.

He was playing idly with the muddy stick he’d found on the ground, stabbing the soft soil of the garden repeatedly with a calm demeanour, when he heard footsteps from the house next door approaching him. He looked up to find a boy around his age, standing next to the shoddy white fence that ran between their backyards. He was shuffling on his feet uncomfortably, but his gaze was steadfastly focused on Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes roamed all over him and noticed his little fist was clenched around something.

He’d never played well with other kids. His mother sometimes set up playdates to encourage his social progress, however he found other children utterly dull. More than once, a playdate ended with Sherlock purposefully making the other child cry by whatever means, so he could get back home and try to convince Mycroft to play with him instead. Needless to say, a twelve-year-old genius generally had no inclination to waste his time entertaining his younger brother.

This time, however, he found himself oddly curious about what the chubby little boy next door wanted. He pushed himself to his feet, not quite sure of what was expected of him. The boy didn’t say anything, and just continued staring at him with a slight smile on his lips. As Sherlock plodded towards the fence, his smile grew. He held out his little fist through the gap between the planks, and Sherlock could now see what his fingers were curled around; a single daisy.

His eyes flicked from the flower, to the boy’s blushing face, and then back at the flower. He wiggled the daisy, as if to say _Go on, take it. It’s for you._ Sherlock cautiously lifted his hand and plucked the flower from the boy’s grasp.

His gaze fell to the little white petals and the round yellow part which he knew was called a sun disk. Thanks to his mother’s love of flowers, he’d heard a lot about them. What he liked to learn about the most were all the scientific details. However, he also knew the common names for them and what they symbolized. This particular one was a _Leucanthemum vulgare_ , an oxeye daisy. People picked off their petals one after the other, alternately saying _He loves me_ and _He loves me not_ with each petal. He found it an interesting game, but he had no idea for whom he could play. He didn’t know anyone else besides his family, and even if he did, what did he care if they loved him or not?

He wished he’d cared. He wanted a friend. Just one would be enough, he wasn’t greedy. Then he could play all the games that required a second person to participate and have someone to talk with about all the things his parents- and sometimes Mycroft, too- taught him. What good was it to learn something when all he had was himself?

He lifted his head to say something to his neighbour, only to find him running back in the direction of his own house without looking back. He had no idea what had been about to come out of his mouth, yet he still felt a pang of disappointment to see the boy’s retreating back. He sighed. He hadn’t even insulted or hit the boy. Why did he have to leave?

He tucked the little daisy behind his ear, under his long black curls, and stuck his hands into his pockets. Dejected, he made his way back into the house to be yelled at by his mother.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (7)_

Sherlock sat on the little red chair he’d pushed next to his window, watching John play with all his silly toys. Even though the distance between their houses was not significant, John still looked so much smaller than he did when Sherlock watched him in the backyard. Yet, he could still follow all his expressions and movements.

He was supposed to do his science homework, and normally, he loved doing it, but whenever John was around, his gaze automatically drifted to the boy, and everything else disappeared from his mind. He’d gotten used to it, so now, there was a chair by the window that faced John’s room. He didn’t particularly like standing around when he didn’t have to, so he’d placed it there for the inevitable moments John would be visible through two layers of glass.

When they were both in their backyards, doing one thing or another, sometimes John would catch him staring. He didn’t mind it in the slightest, but the blonde boy’s face would turn a light shade of pink every time their eyes locked on to one another. Sherlock had also caught him looking a few times, only then the hue on his cheeks would be closer to red than pink.

Now, he was lost in his own world, surrounded by a wide range of toys, making Batman- his favourite- talk to another toy Sherlock didn’t recognize. He didn’t know what the appeal of the superhero was, but he liked seeing the joy in John’s eyes when he was playing with it. He himself preferred swords, and treasure chests, and pretending he was a pirate. And what was so special about the cars that were always carelessly thrown onto the floor? Every time John moved to another part of his room, Sherlock’s heart leapt at the thought of him stepping on one of them and hurting himself.  

Mycroft’s mocking voice pulled him out of his reverie.

“Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock. Go talk to him, if you want to play with him so much.”

Sherlock turned to see his brother leaning against the doorframe with a smirk on his face. He let out a growl, which only made Mycroft chuckle.

“He isn’t going to bite, you know.”

“I might.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the frame. He turned towards his own room. “Suit yourself.”

When his brother was gone, his body moved in the direction of the sun-haired boy of its own will. He observed his every gesture and imagined himself there, holding the other toy John had in his hand. He didn’t know if that other character was a villain or not, but if there was a fight, he could certainly take on Batman.

After all, he was Captain Redbeard, the fearsome pirate of the seven seas. This game would be nothing in comparison to his dangerous adventures. He could surely win.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (9)_

He hated waking up early, but one had to go to school, didn’t they? It was especially soul-draining, because it was the first day of the school year. He had gotten used to getting out of bed at noon and lazing about when he wasn’t doing an experiment or other. He didn’t have anything against classes, but he loved being able to do his own research with no restrictions. He gave one last longing look to his chemistry equipment and violin and made his way down the stairs to be taken to school.

The building was not very far from their house, but he wasn’t allowed to go on his own just yet. His fat brother was going to a public school, which was pretty close to his school. However, he’d made it clear that he had no time to accompany Sherlock a couple of blocks down the street, so he was stuck holding his mother’s hand the whole way there.

He was sitting on the veranda when he saw Mike Stamford passing by. He supposed he’d be rid of his mother next year as well. He followed the boy’s steps with his eyes and drew in a surprised breath when he saw him make a left after their house. Mike rang the doorbell of the Watsons and stood there impatiently with his hands pulling at the straps of his backpack.

A very chipper-looking John opened the door and jumped on his friend.

“Oi! John!” Mike protested.

John laughed and let him go. He closed the door behind himself.

Mike was trying to fix his appearance, when John noticed Sherlock had been watching them. The two boys looked at each other for at least half a minute. Eventually, Mike broke the spell with a question, unaware of what was happening between his friend and the boy next door.

“Ready to go?”

John shook his head slightly, a regretful expression in his eyes, and turned to Mike. “Yup.”

They slowly strode out of the front yard and made their way toward the school he shared with them. John turned back to get one more glimpse of Sherlock, and then was out of sight.

He wished it was him accompanying John to school instead of Mike. Mike was a good person. He had nothing against him. However, he knew if he had someone to walk with him to school, he wouldn’t have to go with his mother anymore. John and he lived right next door to each other, so he was the perfect candidate. Mike went out of his way to pick up John from his house, he knew. In fact, it’d be a favour to him. His route would shorten, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to hold his mother’s hand. Win-win. And if having John with him would be a bonus, he didn’t acknowledge it.

He was roused from his thoughts when his mother shut the door behind her.

“Come on, baby.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth at the endearment and got up off the floor. The only good thing about this was that there was no one around to hear him be called baby. He put his bony hand in his mother’s outstretched one and followed her into another school year.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (13)_

Sherlock was standing by his window, frozen at the scene unfolding before his eyes.

John had a girl in his room, and not just in his room, but in his arms. As if that wasn’t enough, their eyes were closed and his mouth was on hers. Sherlock could have dissected the whole endeavour and pointed out that the boy didn’t know what he was doing, that he was trying to imitate what he’d seen in movies before, that it was his first kiss, and he was very nervous. However, he didn’t. He just stood there, horrified and with his stomach churning, because the boy in this scenario wasn’t just any boy. It was John.

He hadn’t expected how much this would’ve hurt, not because he didn’t know how jealousy worked, but because he hadn’t seen this coming at all. He’d known for a while now that his constant preoccupation with his neighbour was about more than social observation or plain curiosity. He watched his every step and listened for his every word. He thought about him almost all the time. When he wasn’t thinking about him consciously, he felt a knot in his chest and knew that the boy was still in the back of his mind somewhere. He was too engrossed in his own feelings to consider John had a life of his own outside of their stupid backyard and little rooms that saw into each other.

So, John didn’t feel his heartbeat in his mouth, speeding up, like he did, whenever their eyes met across the fence. They had been staring at each other for as long as he could remember. What did the boy see in his eyes then, when he looked over? Did he know how Sherlock felt and pitied him, or was he too oblivious to see? Maybe he’d been entertaining himself watching the weirdo next door who couldn’t even put together two words to greet him. Well, it was probably over now. He’d found a new source of amusement for himself.

He felt the mild spring breeze blowing into his black locks that fell to his shoulders through the open window. _Do I need them this long anymore?_ The thought startled him. His mother sometimes attempted to cajole him into cutting it, but he’d never let her. He hadn’t realized why until this moment. Among his fuzzy childhood memories, one jumped out at him.

John sitting on the swing set in his backyard while talking to Harry. Her hair cut short, like a boy’s, and John mocking her.

_“You look like a bug, Harry!”_

She hadn’t cared and just stuck out her tongue at her brother. It hadn’t stopped him, though.

_“Well, at least you don’t look like a witch anymore.”_

Harry had narrowed her eyes. _“What’s wrong with my hair?”_

_“It looks like straws! It’s not even black!”_

_“Your hair isn’t black either!”_

John had ignored his sister’s response. _“And you don’t even have curls! What’s to grow?”_

It was the first time that Sherlock resented his mind for its potency. There was no energy in his limbs to move away from the window, no ability in his eyes to look away, but his mind continued to race and show him things he no longer wished to see.

Just when he felt frustrated tears welling in his eyes, a pair of dark blue orbs met his, and the strength that had left him minutes ago returned with a vengeance.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (16)_

It was a nice day to be outside and relax on the lawn chair in the backyard, and Sherlock was taking advantage of that. He was reclining, half-turned towards the neighbouring lot with headphones in his ears. John was seated against the old oak tree in their garden, reading about bees, and Sherlock was enjoying the view. He’d been talking about apiology with his dad a week earlier, and he was sure John had heard the conversation. Now, as was his custom with every scientific topic Sherlock mentioned, he’d gone and bought a book to satisfy his curiosity. They were always inadequate for John, he knew, but he contented himself with them anyway. He couldn’t ask Sherlock, after all.  

It was a casual afternoon, like many others they shared before in utter tranquility. Sherlock loved those afternoons more than anything in the world, with the exception of the boy who made them what they were. They were brighter for his presence and now, admiring his beautiful face, Sherlock couldn’t help but be dazzled. What sort of light did he emanate? He didn’t know, but he was glad they didn’t speak. God knows what his voice directed at Sherlock would do to his heart.

Instead of longing for a word casually thrown his way, he’d learnt how to enjoy all the unspoken things John carried in his eyes when he was looking at him. He was always captivated by the dark blue he saw there, but he could feel- he knew- John got lost in his greener ones as well.

What they had was unique, something that no one else had experienced before. John may date a girl every now and then, fall prey to his sexual urges like every boy- almost every boy- their age, but soon enough, they were gone, and he always came back to him. In truth, he never left him. Even when the girls came around to visit, his eyes would always look for Sherlock. They didn’t need words or sex to feel what they felt. It was too good and too pure to be sullied by needless drama and primitive biological functions. It was on a level ordinary people couldn’t even imagine.

He let out a breathy chuckle when he heard the song that started playing on his Walkman. He turned the volume all the way up and closed his eyes, mouthing along the words with the singer.

 _Vows are spoken to be broken_   
_Feelings are intense, words are trivial_   
_Pleasures remain, so does the pain_   
_Words are meaningless and forgettable_

It was almost as if the band had them in mind when writing the song. He did indeed have all he’d ever wanted, like the man said. Only he didn’t need to have John in his arms. He needed him in his mind and there, he always was.

 

 _Sherlock Holmes (17)_  

Who knew he’d be just like the others? Just one touch had done him in. He’d disdained sex for as long as he’d been aware of what it meant for the lack of control it brought with it, but now, he was burning with desire and gagging for it.

Was it because he’d repressed his urges for so long he was now dragging home this lecherous creature by his clammy hand? He was a year his senior at school and had not looked his way once before today. It was obvious he was acting so freely because he was about to set off for university. He had no reason to be afraid that Sherlock would cling to him like a leech, demanding his attention just because they’d have fucked once. He wouldn’t be there to be clung to.

Of course, if he’d known Sherlock had no interest in a relationship with him, he might have tried his luck before, and perhaps Sherlock would have told him to piss off instead of pushing into his hand when the boy put his hand on his crotch. God, he was pathetic. He knew he was. Yet, he had no intention of letting go of the moist hand in his.

When they reached the entrance of the Holmes residence, he felt someone’s gaze on him. The intense pull, a pair of eyes he couldn’t even see was still capable of, only served to increase the resoluteness of his steps. Sherlock owed him nothing. Their relationship was over. He would move on, so why shouldn’t Sherlock? Why couldn’t he taste the pleasures another body could offer too? He’d kept his from Sherlock, fooling him into thinking it didn’t matter, that touching was not necessary when they could just look. Oh, but it was. It was necessary. Sherlock hadn’t known before, but he had. He should have shown him, taught him. They didn’t have to talk, they could’ve just… felt.

So, he kept his hand wrapped around the older boy’s, and his gaze away from the cause of his eternal agony as he made his way into the house. Seconds after he closed the door after them, he heard a loud thud, a grunt, and a crash from outside. His feet paused as his heart sank at what he knew the sounds to be. He felt a chill spread down his spine in the darkness of the lounge, but after a moment, he pushed the pain and the cold away and led the way to his bedroom. He would soon be warm again.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (17)_

He sat on the veranda, armed with his empty victory, watching the small Volkswagen John had recently acquired. John’s parents and sister had filled it to the brim with boxes and bags full of the owner’s clothes, books, and various other belongings. His whole life until then was packed away, ready to be transformed into something completely new in a foreign place he didn’t belong.

He belonged here with Sherlock. The only thing that had ever separated them was the bloody fence between their backyards. He had slept all his nights knowing John’s gaze sometimes slipped his way, keeping an eye on him. He’d felt safe, loved, wanted, understood, and like a normal human being just because he was there.

And now, even before he’d left for good, he wasn’t. Sherlock hadn’t caught even a tiny glimpse of him in the past week. The shutters on his window were left open, but he didn’t come to the window. In fact, almost all his room was visible from Sherlock’s vantage point, so he must have been sitting in his closet for seven days. Even in this moment, when he was about to drive off to his grown-up life, leaving him behind completely, he hadn’t left the confines of his house. His family had loaded the car for him. Sherlock sat there the whole time, watching the procession of luggage passing before his eyes. Harry cast him one or two pitying glances, but she remained silent.

Eventually, the whole family came out to stand by the car, saying their goodbyes to a wretched-looking John Watson. Oh, John was leaving him, yes, but he had killed him. Now, perhaps, he could die as well. What was the purpose of his existence if John had bags under his eyes, his right hand was in a cast as he knew it’d be, his other hand shaking with a slight tremor? If his bright light had vanished, not even leaving a glimmer in its wake? Sherlock was his killer and his widower. He’d mourn this loss for as long as he continued to draw breath. He’d wilt, locked in his room, gasping for a gleam of those dark blue eyes fixed on his vicious, unfeeling, cruel ones.

He shivered under the burning August sun, as John didn’t look up to give him one last look that said goodbye. The only light coming from that direction was the rays of the sun reflecting of a single teardrop that was sliding down his cheek. As the car disappeared around the corner, Sherlock made to get up but swayed on his feet. Two white hands grabbed him by his shoulders just in time, keeping him upright.

He turned to find his mother regarding him with sympathy in her eyes, and he let himself fall into her arms. He did nothing to stop the tears falling and sobbed like a little child while she tried to comfort him with a hand on his back, moving up and down in a calming manner. He cried until he was exhausted, then he was tucked into his bed by his mother, something he hadn’t allowed even when he’d been too young to go to school. He didn’t care. It wasn’t him that was lying in that bed anyhow. Sherlock Holmes was now dead, and he didn’t give a fig what happened to the poor sod that now occupied that body.

 

 _Sherlock Holmes (18)_  

Christmas was officially his favourite holiday. If he could, he’d marry this year’s Christmas because it gave him the best present he could imagine. John was here. He was back home.

His gaze had been flicking to John’s old bedroom involuntarily since the man had left. He knew he’d always find it empty, but he couldn’t help it. The motion was ingrained in his soul. He’d have to train himself out of it in time.

This morning, however, he was rewarded with the undoubtably best sight he’d ever seen. John Watson, sleeping in his old bed with a peaceful expression on his perfect, beautiful face. He almost forgot how to breathe. He’d missed him so much, he could feel it in his veins, sense his bones eroding with the power of the yearning that had taken over his body. He watched him sleep for an hour or two, until John’s eyes fluttered open and found his without a second of delay. They stared at each other for God knows how long, only to be interrupted by a young woman throwing John’s bedroom door open with a cheerful grin on her lips. Sherlock’s face had fallen, but soon enough, he cleared his mind and deduced that she was only a friend. She wasn’t sleeping in the same room as John to begin with, and it was also quite obvious from John’s body language that he wasn’t interested.

The whole day had passed like a familiar dream. John’s friend had been off somewhere, so he’d spent all day out in the backyard with a bulky Christmas jumper on his small frame and some sort of a warm beverage in his hand. They were doing nothing but staring at each other in an attempt to make up for the days lost. It was not something they’d ever done this way, where both of them were clearly not busy with anything else, and there was no excuse they could make if someone had confronted them about it. They looked away every once in a while, when everything got too intense, to appreciate a passing bird, or Sherlock’s mum’s snowdrops, but their eyes always drifted back to each other a few minutes later.

In the evening, John had gone in to have dinner with his family, when his guest stepped out to the backyard with a cigarette in her hand. As the lighter illuminated her face, she noticed Sherlock sitting on the other side of the fence, observing her.  Her face lit up in recognition.

Sherlock watched her warily as she made her way to stand by the white fence. She had a smile on her face as she waved enthusiastically.

“Hi! You must be Sherlock!”

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

“I’m Molly. John and I go to uni together.”

“O-okay.” He stuttered. He was terrified to his very core. What the hell was this girl doing?

She gave him another warm smile, noticing his trepidation. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

She nodded and immediately changed the subject, clearly aware of how uncomfortable she’d made Sherlock. It was good that she was slightly intelligent, or he may have gone into cardiac arrest at the next mention of John.

“Cor, what a lovely Christmas!” She admired the gardens they were standing in. “I’m so glad John invited me to spend it with his family. I didn’t really fancy going all the way up north to Inverness.”

She gave Sherlock a sideways glance. “Have you ever been?”

“No.”

“Hm. It’s pretty up there, but life isn’t as fast as it is in London.”

Sherlock found himself responding without meaning to. “It’s not like we’re in the middle of the city.”

“I suppose not, but I still prefer it to Inverness. Do you not like being here?”

“I-” He considered for a moment what the answer was. Molly had, unknowingly, asked a very complicated question. “I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“It’s my home.” His gaze slipped behind the girl to the oak tree that John always sat against. “But it’s not what it used to be.”

“I see.”

Sherlock’s head whipped back to her. “Do you?” He enquired sharply.

Molly smiled at him, then beckoned him closer with her finger. Sherlock reluctantly did as he was bid. When he had gone as far as the fence, the girl leaned into his ear and whispered.

“Courage.”

A second later, she had gone back inside, leaving Sherlock supporting himself on the planks. He had no idea what had just happened, but he knew it was something big.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (20)_

The litter lying around the place was getting a bit out of hand. Sherlock had never been the tidiest of people, but this was a whole other level. If there was a person that had a reason to enter his room, they’d be lucky to find Sherlock with a search party. However, he was happily left alone by the entire student population and the faculty. Therefore, there was no real incentive to clear the floor of the mass of syringes on it.

His phone rang, portending a conversation with the only person who had his number, and he dropped the syringe he was holding onto a pile of garbage. He didn’t know why he didn’t just toss the bloody phone out. What could Mycroft want anyway? Hadn’t they spoken just four months ago?

He finally answered the phone to stop the demanding and incessant ringing. It said a lot about his state of mind that he didn’t think to just mute the device instead.

“Yes?”

“Sherlock, where are you?” Mycroft sounded worried, which was ridiculous. What would that prick have to worry about? The oncoming robotic uprising would surely be a joyous occasion for him. He always wanted to rule the world.

“I’m in my room. Where are you?” He giggled. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like he’d just made a hilarious joke.

“Sherlock, are you on drugs?”

The alarm in his brother’s voice made him laugh harder.

“Sherlock!” He bellowed.

“Yes, brother dear. As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I’m coming to get you.”

“Get me where? I’m home.” He weakly kicked at an empty can of beer that was right next to his feet. Where had that come from?

“For God’s sake, it’s Christmas. Mum and Dad are wondering why you’re not here yet. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Don’t bother. I’m not coming.”

“What do you mean you’re not coming?”

“Just what I said. I’m not coming. I won’t be come.” He giggled again. He was very good with words. Maybe he should have been reading literature instead of chemistry.

Mycroft was clearly running out of patience, but he restrained himself before saying something he would regret. Sherlock could tell he was gritting his teeth as he spoke, which gave him an even bigger rush than heroin did.

“And why is that?”

“Why should I?”

“To see your family, perhaps?”

Sherlock snorted.

“And what about John Watson?”

His body, which had been sprawled out on the couch, jerked up. He sat rigidly on the edge of the cushion. “What about him?”

“You don’t wish to behold your prince?”

He didn’t even register the way Mycroft had worded the question. His breath caught at the implications instead.

“He isn’t there.”

He’d intended it to sound like a fact. However, his voice had gone up at the last word, turning the statement into an enquiry. In truth, even if he’d managed to say it with a straight voice, the response itself gave away too much. Much more than he was willing to admit to his brother when not intoxicated.

“Wrong as seems customary, brother mine. The object of your fascination is in fact sitting on his parents’ veranda, and every ten seconds or so, checking to see if anyone’s coming down the street.”

There was not a peep on either end of the phone line for one minute as the gears in Sherlock’s head attempted to turn. Eventually, he cleared his throat and muttered, “So what if he is?”

Mycroft sighed. “I’d ask if you had a lover’s spat, but in order to do that, you need to be able to speak.”

“Piss off, Mycroft! And don’t bother coming here, unless you’d like to spend time standing around in dorm corridors.”

He hurled his phone towards the wall without hanging up. Mycroft’s muffled voice continued droning on as it fell on the floor in pieces. Sherlock smiled a wry smile at the sight. Well, that was convenient. It wasn’t like he was expecting a call anyway.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (23)_

He hadn’t called to let them know he was coming home for Christmas this year. It wasn’t like he was trying to surprise anyone. Well, maybe one person, but he couldn’t have called him anyway.

He’d squandered the recent years of his life on being a slave to several types of drugs, most notably heroin. He was lucky he hadn’t killed himself during his three-year-long stupor. He’d found the drugs an effective way to put John out of his mind, and the euphoria they brought had been a happy bonus. However, the truth was he’d been a child, not able to deal with his problems, escaping from the reality of his world. Most importantly, he realized that what he and John had done only served to make them more angst-ridden as time progressed. They acted as if they were being romantic, and that hurting themselves was something that made them more special, more poetic and beautiful than those in other relationships. However, Sherlock now knew they were only being cowards.

Of course, that didn’t solve any problems. Owning up to a shortcoming didn’t mean he was capable of overcoming it easily. All he could do at the moment was see what damage they had incurred and if anything was salvageable from this wreck.

Mummy gave him a big hug, glad to see him well after all these years. He shook his dad’s hand and ignored Mycroft’s completely unaffected expression as he climbed the stairs to his room to look for any traces of John. His car wasn’t parked out front, but perhaps he’d traveled by some other means.

As soon as he opened his curtains, he felt a presence by the door.

“He isn’t here.”

He spun around to face his brother who, as usual, couldn’t help but interfere. “And what makes you think that’s what I’m looking for?”

Mycroft smirked and didn’t dignify that query with an answer.

“It’s been years, you know.”

“You must have missed your curtains terribly, then, running up to open them first thing. Apologies. Should I leave you two alone?”

Sherlock snorted. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Nothing, brother dear. I’m only here to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.” He perched on the edge of his childhood bed and stared out the window.

Mycroft turned to leave but paused before he’d taken two steps. “Don’t wait up, Sherlock. He won’t come. He hasn’t been back for three years.” Then, he disappeared towards his old room.

That night, Sherlock lied down with his eyes closed, remembering all the good times he had, lounging on the lawn chair, watching the little window across from his, stealing peeks in school corridors. John’s face had always turned his head, whether he meant for it to or not. Eventually, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming of the day he’d be dazzled again by John’s incandesce.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (24)_

Sherlock was seated on a cushion he’d brought out to the veranda, watching the street, when suddenly, there was a daisy right under his nose. His shrewd eyes flicked down to find a little blonde boy holding out the flower in his tiny fist. A shiver ran down his spine. This was a familiar scene, but he couldn’t quite place the memory.

He accepted the offering and patted the empty spot next to him on the cushion. “Thank you.”

The boy sat down and turned his inquisitive gaze on him again. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Sherlock started at the astute observation coming from a child no more than six years old. “Why do you think that?”

“You’ve been watching the road, and you look sad.”

Sherlock smiled. “Do I?” He turned over the daisy in his hand. “Where did you get this? Daisies don’t grow in the winter.”

“We got flowers from a shop for grandma and grandpa. They let me have one.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jack.”

“Alright, Jack. Do you know how to play _He loves me… He loves me not_?”

The little boy shook his head.

“You pick a petal,” He pointed to the white parts of the flower. “These are called petals, and pluck it while you say _he loves me_ ,” He plucked one as he explained, “and with the next petal, you say _he loves me not_.” He plucked another, “and so on. You have to think of someone as you play the game. Do you wanna give it a try?”

Jack nodded and took the daisy back in his small hand.

“Who are you thinking of?”

“My mum.”

“Okay, then, you’ll be saying _She loves me….She loves me not_. Go on.”

Jack timidly plucked a petal and recited the words Sherlock taught him. With the last one, he yelled, “She loves me!!” and pushed the naked flower back in Sherlock’s hand.

He laughed and accepted the stem that was only connected to its sun disk now. “And who is your mother?”

“Harry Watson.” he stated proudly.

“Oh.”

“Do you know her, Mister?”

“Yeah, I do.” He paused for a second to consider his next words. “And how is your uncle John?”

The boy jumped up at the mention of his uncle. “Uncle John will be bringing me lots of presents this year!”

Sherlock felt his hands tremble as he asked, “He’s coming here?”

“Yes!” Jack started running in the direction of the Watson residence. “I have to go now,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t be sad, Mister. Your friend will come!” Then, he was gone.

Sherlock was studying the petal-less flower again, when he remembered what had been nagging at him during his encounter with young Jack. He dashed into the house and up the stairs. He turned his room upside down, looking into every box and drawer and finally, found what he was looking for.

Another daisy, now all dried up of course, but petal-less like the one Jack had just given him. His vague memories came into focus. A small blonde boy handing him a flower that he’d kept in his room for years and eventually, played the game he’d always found interesting, thinking of the only person whose love could matter to him.

He grabbed both flower stems and sprinted downstairs and onto the veranda again. As he watched the street, waiting for the love of his life to appear, all he could think was _He loves me_.

 

_Sherlock Holmes (24)_

John was striding towards him. This was not a dream. John Watson was approaching the fence between their houses with a determined look on his slightly red face. So, this was what panic felt like. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with his legs, where to put his hands, and as he saw John jumping the fence in one swift motion; he lost the ability to decide where to direct his eyes as well. His gaze fell to his lap, as if he was blinded. His whole body was trembling, and there were sweat drops running down his back.

Finally, the sound of footsteps ceased, and there was someone standing right in front of him. He inhaled a quivering breath and…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song quoted in the chapter is Depeche Mode - Enjoy the Silence.  
> Next chapter will be the years through John's POV. So get ready!  
> You can message me about anything you wish to on [here.](http://lar3000.tumblr.com/)


	2. Among the Hyacinths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watches Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again much gratitude goes to my awesome betas [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm) and [Victoria](http://trunquility.tumblr.com/).

_John Watson (6)_

Being grounded sucked. He didn’t understand why he was sent to his room when Harry was the one at fault. She’d pushed him first. John had only responded.

He hated Harry and how she could get out of anything just by crying. He’d cried too, but Mummy had chosen to believe her. Now, thanks to that lying liar, he was stuck in his room when he could be playing outside. He didn’t even have anything to watch from the window. His room was on the second floor, in the back of the house, and all he could see was their backyard and the backyards of the two adjacent houses.

After ten minutes of sulking on the window ledge, he noticed he could also see into one of the rooms in the next house. The room faced his, but the only reason it’d caught his attention was all the screaming coming from there.

A black haired boy was jumping up and down, and throwing, what his dad would call, a tantrum. His mother was trying to calm him down, but when the boy didn’t give in, she turned stern. Her icy tone drifted all the way to John.

“No, Sherlock. We are not getting a dog.”

Then, she stepped out of the room, leaving the previously very loud boy speechless. He suddenly dropped to the floor, as if he ran out of energy and just turned off. John watched the scene without any particular interest until tears started falling down the small boy’s- he was very thin and shorter than John- cheeks. He wasn’t making a racket anymore. In fact, it seemed like he was trying his best to cover up the sobs that were escaping him involuntarily.

He looked so very sad that John’s little heart broke for him. He wanted so badly to go and console the boy- Sherlock- , offer to be his friend, and show him he wouldn’t need a dog to play with, if he had John instead. He started to go downstairs, only to be reminded by the locked door that he wasn’t allowed to leave his room until dinner. Pouting, he padded back to the window, just to keep an eye on his new friend. He was determined they’d play together as soon as dinner was done.

All through his meal, he was brimming with excitement about meeting the new boy. He ran out as soon as his carrots were done, throwing the fork on the table with no heed to where it would land. He heard it clink against the dining room floor and his mother’s exasperated “John!” behind him, but he was already out the back door.

He came to a sudden halt when he saw Sherlock sitting by himself on the ground, looking infinitely frail. His only companion seemed to be a stick in his hand. John’s intentions of playing together flew out of his head at the expression on his face, and he suddenly felt very shy about approaching him. He watched the boy for a while with red-tinted cheeks, the mixture of compassion and excitement he was feeling making him hesitant.

His eyes drifted to the colourful plants that surrounded Sherlock, and a new idea formed in his brain. _He must like flowers, if he’s sitting there._ He leant down and plucked one that was growing right next to his feet among all the unmowed grass and tottered toward the fence. The boy looked up and watched his progress through the yard, making the butterflies in John’s stomach flutter even harder. He stopped when he reached the border between his and Sherlock’s house. He was staring at John, possibly waiting for him to do something, but John couldn’t make the words come out.

He had never been the sort of boy who couldn’t say what he wanted to say. He wasn’t the friendliest of kids, but he was by no means shy. If he liked someone, he played with them. If he didn’t like them, they knew. This, not even being able to say hello, was completely new to him, so he just stood there, fidgeting, until Sherlock rose from between the other flowers and started walking in his direction with timid steps.

He pushed his hand through the fence, hoping Sherlock would know what to do. After a few seconds of studying John, he took the white and yellow flower and turned his attention to it. By then, John’s face was burning with a not entirely welcome feeling he hadn’t experienced until that moment, so he took his chance to escape back to the safety of his home. He darted through the yard, his short legs almost hitting his bum in his hurry, and threw himself inside.

He climbed the stairs to his room, ignoring his dad’s calls, and jumped on the bed. He turned his flushed face into the pillow, hiding his unprecedented embarrassment from the world, even though there was no one to witness it.

He fell asleep in that position and dreamt of huge, talking flowers chasing him through hellish marshlands. They were pleading with him, calling out his name, but he wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it. So he ran, and ran, and ran, and ran…

  


_John Watson (8)_

“Mummy, did you know that the world and the sun and all the stars were just a dust cloud billions of years ago?” piped up John without lifting his head from the children’s encyclopedia he was engrossed in.

His mother chuckled. “Yes, honey.” She finished tidying up the bed. “Are you enjoying your book?”

“Yes, mummy. I love it!”

Mrs.Watson patted his head. “I’m glad.”

When John next looked up, the door was closed, and his mother had left. He grabbed his book from the desk and settled on the floor, facing his window. He stole a glance in the direction of Sherlock’s room and then went on reading about how the universe was formed.

He’d been devouring all the scientific books his parents had been getting for him for a while now. He couldn’t help but be curious about the subjects he heard were discussed by Sherlock and his parents. Sometimes, when they were in their respective backyards, playing on their own, Sherlock’s mum would come out and speak to him about flowers, plants, animals, space, whatever Sherlock wanted to learn. And learn, he wanted to. He was so clever. He was a year behind John at school, but he was cleverer than everyone in his class. He asked all kinds of questions, and his mother answered as far as she could. John sat closer to the fence on those days and listened to her lectures. He couldn’t remember every little detail like Sherlock did, but nevertheless, he learnt a lot. Afterwards, he went to his parents and asked for a book on that topic, and his parents were always happy to oblige him.

He didn’t look away from the books, even when his parents or Harry tried to tell him something, but sometimes, his gaze lifted to check what was going on in the bedroom across from his. When he noticed a figure entering the room, he quickly shut the encyclopedia and threw it under his bed. There was no way Sherlock could see what the boy was reading, however, his child’s mind couldn’t account for details like that. It wasn’t even conscious behaviour. He just didn’t want to be in Sherlock’s presence, knowing he was doing something so embarrassing as being interested in the same thing as the other boy.

He picked up the toys that were closest to him, just in case Sherlock looked in to see what he was up to. John was not stupid. He didn’t know why Sherlock was curious about what he did, but he saw the boy looking at him sometimes, so he could not risk giving himself away.

He played his games, every once in a while looking up to see Sherlock perched by his window. He averted his eyes right away, concentrating on the hide and seek routine he liked to reenact between Batman and Robin. In his game, they always bickered and fought, but they had not lost against the evil forces, not even once, be it the Joker, Catwoman, or Ra’s al Ghul. They were the greatest duo there ever was, and they would forever remain that way.

 

 _John Watson (10)_  
  
Monday was so close. John huffed and buried his head under the pillow, lamenting the ending summer. He only had two more days of freedom before he had to endure all the lectures, and homework. Well, at least he could see Mike again. Mike’s house wasn’t far from his, but the boy had been on holidays all summer long with his family. Greg and Bill had been around, but Mike was his best mate, so he was happy that he’d get to see him again.  

Well, he had one more reason to be excited about school starting. He thought he could probably get his dad to convince his mum that John was old enough to go to school on his own. He didn’t actually want to be alone, but some of his classmates had already been making the short journey with their friends last year. If he could get his mum to agree, he could probably find someone who lived close by to go with him. It was more fun to have somebody walk with you. The whole fifteen minute would fly by if he had a friend whom he could chat to as they strolled.

An hour later, he was sitting quietly, as his parents discussed the issue.

“He’s old enough, dear. And it’s only fifteen minutes.”

His mum wasn’t so sure. “Maybe he could go with Harry.”

John looked at his father with pleading eyes.

Mr.Watson sighed. “What about with a friend?”

John turned to his mother like a puppy hoping to get a treat. She considered the proposal for a moment, before she finally acquiesced.

“Alright.”

He jumped up off the sofa to celebrate, but his mother stopped him with a held up finger. “But only if there’s someone who can go with you. Otherwise you go with Harry, or with your dad.”

“Yes, mum! Thank you!”

He put his arms around her neck, and hugged her fervently, before he ran out the door to their backyard.

As soon as he was out, he realized what his feet were doing. He stopped by the fence and let out a sigh of relief at a certain boy’s absence. Why had he run here? Granted, Sherlock was the most logical person to walk with. They basically resided on the same lot, and they went to the same school. However, he had never said a single word to John in all the years they lived next to each other.

Well, neither had he. Yet, he felt like he knew the boy so intimately, even better than he knew Mike. He knew his family, all his interests, his moods. They even had some sort of a rapport between them, which John couldn’t really understand.   

The question was, did he have enough courage to break years of silence they had built between the two of them? He’d never seen Sherlock with a friend. He had an older brother called Mycroft, but they didn’t spend any time with each other either. Maybe, he just didn’t know how to start a conversation because he had no one to talk to. John cursed himself for not putting these things together in his mind before. He’d wasted four years they could have been friends, because- well, he didn’t really know why, because he knew how to start conversations after all. So, this time, he made up his mind. He wasn’t waiting for the boy to speak to him anymore. He was going to ask Sherlock if he wanted to go to school with him, and he was confident the rest would follow automatically.

He kicked around the football that he’d left in the backyard aimlessly, waiting for Sherlock to show up. After a couple of minutes, he heard raised voices from the Holmes’ residence.

“I don’t wanna!” screamed Sherlock.

His mother, however, was speaking patiently. “Honey, it’d be good for you.”

“Why don’t you bother Mycroft? Where are his ‘mates’?” His voice had turned venomous at the last word.

“Your brother’s almost a grown-up, Sherlock. It’s his business what he does.”

“But I have to be bullied into making friends?”

“What’s so bad about it?” Mrs. Holmes entreated.

“Boring! They’re all so boring! Everyone at school is an idiot! I can’t stand them!”

John was staring at the back door of the house, shocked into stillness, when Sherlock stormed out and slammed the door behind him. He always noticed John right away when he was in the backyard, but this time, he went straight to his mother’s favourite flowerbed and sat in it. An incomprehensible thought flickered in John’s mind: _He looks like he belongs there._ He shook his head slightly, as if to chase the confusing thought away, only to be ambushed by an idea he didn’t want to face. _He doesn’t want to be your friend. That’s why he doesn’t talk to you. He thinks you’re an idiot._

He stood there, watching Sherlock sulk between the flowers for a while, and then sauntered towards his room with a heavy heart. He frittered away the whole day in his room, doing nothing in particular. The next morning, he picked up the phone and dialled Mike’s number to ask him if he wanted to walk to school together.

Mike was close enough.

 

_John Watson (14)_

His eyes opened out of their own accord and fixed themselves on their usual target as if they were pieces of iron pulled by a magnet. For one moment, he forgot who was wrapped in his arms, but the inexplicable exhilaration that accompanied his oblivion was ephemeral. Sherlock’s face twisted into an expression full of contempt. He didn’t linger like he always did. He slammed the window into its frame with ferocity and tugged his until-then unused curtain closed.

John broke the clumsy kiss and pulled away from Sarah, who was blushing.

“I should go.”

“Alright.”

“Um.. Would you- Would you like to go to a film on Saturday?”

John smiled at her. “Sure. Sounds great.”

After his guest left, he sank into his bed and contemplated his day. It had been great, possibly the best day he’s ever had. He’d had his first kiss, and on top of that, got a girlfriend. However, for some reason, he felt bone-tired. His mind went to the vicious expression he’d seen on Sherlock’s face. He’d never directed such a look at John before. He had a calm, cool attitude and eyes clear as water. Yes, he sometimes got stroppy with his mother, or Mycroft, but that only served to make him look childish. This, this was something new. He didn’t understand, but he had a niggling feeling in his stomach about it.

Was it about the kiss? Maybe he didn’t approve of Sarah. But why should he care who John dated? Was he disgusted by displays of affection? It was also possible that he hadn’t yet started appreciating the fairer sex. He remembered how he didn’t even want to be associated with girls up until a couple of years ago, and Sherlock was a year younger than him.

In truth, he hadn’t even thought of Sarah that way until earlier today. Mike had told him that she had a crush on him, but he hadn’t taken it seriously. He’d have to take her places and say romantic things, and he didn’t see himself as that sort of a person. However, with all her blushing and stuttering, Sarah was nothing if not persistent. Finally, John caved in to all the pressure from Mike, Greg, and Bill, and conceded that it might have been fun to have a girlfriend.

And it was fun and exciting in a way. They were being a bit secretive about it, because of Sarah’s shyness, so John had taken her to his house. His parents were at work, and Harry was with her friends. There was no one who could see them. He knew Sarah was planning on kissing him, but at first, he didn’t give her the opportunity. He was a bloke, so he should’ve been the one to instigate it. That’s what his friends told him anyway. He sat far apart from her in the living room. When she started getting fidgety, he geared himself up to get on with it. He led her to the backyard, reasoning it’d be more romantic under the trees and with a view of beautiful flowers. That’s what girls liked, didn’t they? However, when they got there, it just didn’t feel right. He stalled as long as he could before he took her upstairs to his room. His eyes glided to every little corner as if he needed to check all the details. Then, with one final glimpse out the window, he was suddenly bursting with the desire to put his mouth on hers.

He tried to remember the details of the kiss. Real life experience would probably work much better for wanking, and he wanted to wank. However, instead of Sarah’s gentle face, he kept imagining Sherlock’s cruel expression. After fifteen minutes of struggling to focus his thoughts, he gave up and threw his pillow with a growl.

What was wrong with him? Why was he obsessing over a stupid pseudo-fight with a friend who wasn’t really a friend, while he could be climaxing to the thoughts of his pretty girlfriend? He hated Sherlock at that moment. Why did he always feel like such a big part of his life even though they hadn’t interacted once in their entire blasted lives? Yes, they looked, and they looked, and they looked. They fucking looked at each other all the time. What the bloody fuck did that achieve? He wanted to open his window and scream his name and swear at him until his water-clear eyes were clouded and wet with tears. He yearned to break his marble-like face with his fists as he demanded answers. If he wasn’t good enough, why the hell didn’t he let go?

He got up off his bed without meaning to and padded towards his window. He leaned against the sill and let out a weary sigh, all the complex feelings he couldn’t name drained away. His gaze fell to the covered window across from his. He was certain his friends didn’t have issues like this, so he couldn’t discuss it with them even if he was looking for opinions. His parents and Harry were not even options. He felt out of place and very lonely among all those people, who’d almost certainly think he was a nutter if he dared to voice his thoughts.

After all, what bloke would think about another bloke this much?

 

_John Watson (17)_

His gaze lifted from the apiology book to admire Sherlock’s graceful form, as it’d been doing periodically since ten o’clock this morning. He tried to concentrate and not take a peek- because dear God, was the boy sexy- however, since John was no saint, he failed on multiple occasions.

He found Sherlock with his eyes closed, quietly singing Depeche Mode’s _Enjoy the Silence_ as he was wont to do lately. They’d become Sherlock’s favourite band, and their songs constantly drifted through their open windows into John’s room. He smiled, his heart filled with burgeoning affection as he recalled the words of the song. Oh, how he wished they were in each other’s arms like Dave Gahan sang.

He’d been trying. Trying so hard to muster the courage to finally say something, but it felt like a curse had been put on them. It seemed unbreakable. How would he start anyway? Just say hello? He cringed at the thought. Their first words to each other couldn’t be so bland, so meaningless after years of tension. Perhaps, he could go and start confessing his feelings, as if that was the natural progression of their relationship until now. _I love you, Sherlock. Will you be mine?_ He could feel his cheeks burning at the thought. Sherlock, being his. Body and soul. Oh, the things he would do to him…

He’d finally understood and, eventually, made peace with his feelings for the boy a few months ago. He stopped bringing girls around- well, he stopped seeing them altogether- and started trying to come up with ways to ask Sherlock out. Harry was constantly pushing him to go through with it, but it wasn’t as easy as she pictured it would have been. After years of silence, the expectations were too high. Her harassment of him about his ogling was starting to get on his nerves, though. He couldn’t help it, could he? Especially since Sherlock started letting his hair grow again. He looked like sin personified and brought to John for his personal enjoyment.

He finally gave up on attempting to stifle his libido and pushed himself to his feet to escape to the privacy of his bedroom. It excited him to think that Sherlock may deduce his reason for ending their afternoon earlier than usual. As he was dashing through the corridor, he heard a familiar melody playing in Harry’s room, volume turned up as high as it could go, to make sure John got the message.

 _Shyness is nice and_   
_Shyness can stop you_   
_From doing all the things in life_   
_You’d like to_   
_So if there’s something you’d like to try_   
_If there’s something you’d like to try_   
_Ask me, I won’t say no, how could I?_

“Piss off, Harry!” John chuckled and stepped into his second sanctuary.

 

_John Watson (18)_

It was curious that Sherlock wasn’t home yet. Generally, he’d be right behind John. They’d walk- what John called- together, their steps in sync. He was wondering what could be delaying his arrival, when he noticed his black mop of hair bobbing as he strode towards his house. The smile that was about to break out on his face due to the boy’s hurry froze, before it could even take a recognizable shape. He was being followed by a twat named Trevor from his year, their hands clasped together.

John’s breathing accelerated, his hands clenched into fists, and his vision swam. Sherlock wasn’t friends with Trevor. They hadn’t even spoken in all the years they went to the same school. In any case, why would they be holding hands if they had suddenly decided to be mates for some unfathomable reason?

His heart was almost beating out of his chest as he fixed his eyes on Sherlock, telepathically begging him to look his way. If only Sherlock would turn his head, he might have seen an explanation for this in his eyes, calming his fears.

The boy did not turn. John could sense the determination seeping out of his every pore, as they made their way into the frontyard of the Holmes residence. He’d lost. Sherlock had had enough of his cowardice and grabbed the first man who wanted him openly. Of course, it must not have been very hard, since every bloody soul who noticed him wanted him. Oh yes, they all despised the boy, but they didn’t fail to appreciate the curve of his arse, or the shape of his cheekbones, depending on the gender leering. He hadn’t cared, because he knew Sherlock didn’t have eyes for anyone besides him. He’d taken the boy for granted and got complacent. It was all his goddamn fault.

Sherlock disappeared behind the door with his “guest” without sparing one glance to John. John’s self-pity turned into raging anger in a split second, and he drove one of his fists into the wall he’d been standing next to. The flower-pot hanging over the spot he hit shook with the force and came off the handle it was fastened to. It shattered into tiny pieces by his feet, leaving the single flower growing in it homeless and broken.

John left the mess he’d made on the veranda as it was and stormed off in a blind fury he couldn’t have quashed even if he’d tried. As it was, he couldn’t think straight. There was neither reason left in his mind nor feelings in his heart save anger. He strolled the streets aimlessly for hours and only returned home in the middle of the night, drunk out of his mind. Alcohol had done the trick. The anger abated and now, finally, he was blessedly hollow.

 

_John Watson (18)_

His heart was broken, yet he couldn’t tear his gaze away from that beautiful face he soon would be leaving behind. He’d been running the whole week, keeping to the secret corners of his house, ones that Sherlock couldn’t see, because he couldn’t bear the idea of looking into his eyes and have them stare back. However, it was safe now. Sherlock would never check the windows that faced the front yard. So, he watched him and took in every last detail for sustenance in the upcoming draught.

The boy looked like he’d given up. He was sitting on the veranda, slouching, something he never did, with a hand under his chin and his elbow on his knee, observing. Harry had talked to his parents, made up a lie or another- John didn’t know what she’d said- so they wouldn’t suffocate him with questions about his hand, or why he looked like a bloody corpse. Now, the three of them were loading his car, while he stood there, watching Sherlock.

It wasn’t the blissful experience he’d been used to, not only because he could feel Sherlock’s sadness radiating to cover all that is around him in gloom, but because, even from this distance, he could discern the purple stains that marred his swan-like neck. He’d really done it, let someone else touch him. Was it any wonder? He wasn’t going to wait forever, after all. John hadn’t pursued anyone after he’d understood what Sherlock meant to him, but he knew their situations weren’t the same. He remembered the time Sherlock had closed the window on his face, because he was kissing Sarah Sawyer. He’d known before John. He’d always been aware, and he hadn’t touched anyone in his entire life, at least not as far as John knew. He, on the other hand, had paraded girl after girl in front of him. He wasn’t as hungry as Sherlock would be for sex, for intimacy.

He couldn’t blame the boy, but that didn’t preclude the hurt and the pain that lodged themselves in his chest and refused to move out. He wondered what he could have done differently. If he hadn’t dated any girls, would this still have happened? He’d still be leaving for university today. The only difference to the air of despondency that they were surrounded by now would be the lack of love bites on Sherlock’s neck. Or maybe, he’d still have done it. Who knew? He was a seventeen-year-old boy who’d never been shown the affection he deserved. He was a human being, no matter how much his brother tried to turn him into a robot. He knew, better than anyone else, that Sherlock felt, and that he never did anything by halves.

There seemed to be no way out of the hole they’d dug themselves into. A lifetime’s worth of emotions had been crammed into meaningful gazes alone, but no matter how expressive eyes could be, they were no words. John didn’t want to face it, but he’d been fooling himself. There was no communication between them. The relationship he’d thought they had was not a relationship at all. If anything, they were each other’s stalkers, nothing more. There was nothing romantic about how they tortured themselves. It was pure idiocy. They should’ve said hello a long time ago.

However, it was too late now. John didn’t have the strength to start something only to leave it behind five minutes later. Maybe, Sherlock planned to say something now that it was his last chance, but he wasn’t going to let it happen. It was difficult as it was, the thought of not coming back home to Sherlock every day. He couldn’t live knowing he’d wasted years they could’ve been holding each other’s hands. Well, he knew it, but he couldn’t have it confirmed, especially since the upcoming years would be wasted as well, with John away at university and Sherlock eventually going to one as well. He wondered if they’d see each other again. A Christmas or two, perhaps? Stepping out to their backyards in the cold of December for a minute or two, when they could get away from their families, and eventually becoming complete strangers who’d maybe even nod at each other in passing. He shuddered at the thought. If he’d never have Sherlock, then he’d rather not interact with him at all. A casual nod would be akin to erasing everything they’d been through, and he’d never forget those years. Perhaps, he’d stop coming back home at some point to avoid it.

He was pulled out of his brown study by Harry’s voice calling out to him from downstairs. _Time to be someone else_ , he thought and made his way down the steps and out the door.

 

_John Watson (19)_

“So it was clostridium botulinum!”

Molly sighed. “John, why are we talking about poisons?”

“The question is why don’t you want to, Molls.” John squeaked. “We’re going to be doctors. We should know.”

“But it’s Christmas!”

John ignored Molly’s protests. His lips curved into a smile, and he strayed into a trance-like state. “Did you know that Botox is a diluted form of botulinum?”

“Yes, John, I know. I also know that Sherlock once concocted some, and he tried to inject his mother with it.”

John giggled. “Mrs. Holmes chased him around the house for half an hour after that.”

Molly rolled her eyes, her hands on the steering wheel. “So am I gonna get to meet this unique specimen?”

John, who’d been lost in his own world until then, turned to consider his friend. “What?”

“Sherlock! Can I meet him?”

He drew in an outraged breath. “No!”

Molly chuckled. “Afraid I’d steal him away? Maybe, instead of keeping him a secret, you should talk to him.”

John fell silent. She drove on, unaware of how appropriate her advice was. John hadn’t told her about the weird nature of his relationship with his neighbour. She probably just assumed that they were friends, which was for the best. The truth was, he trusted Molly, and even though he’d never outright mentioned his feelings about the boy, he knew she wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.

“You’ve never said if he’s single.” Molly crooned suggestively.

John’s mind went to the penultimate time he’d seen Sherlock. His hand wrapped tightly around another’s, taking him to the one place that was so close to him yet so far away.

“I don’t know.” he said in a quiet voice.

She turned her gaze away from the road to give him a brief quizzical look. “What do you mean you don’t know? You know everything about him.” She paused to consider this new bit of information for another second. “You can’t tell me you haven’t spoken to him since September!”

John didn’t respond, knowing anything resembling the truth would turn him into a creeper in her eyes.

Her mild manner suddenly turned fiery, and her voice got louder. “God, men are idiots! Spend your whole life with someone and then, just because they’re not right next to you anymore, don’t make an effort! Rubbish! Plain rubbish!”

He continued staring at his lap until a hand came up to rest on his shoulder.

“I bet he’s doing some sort of social experiment.”

John looked up to see her usually-gentle expression returned to her face. She clearly regretted exploding like that. He composed himself. It was no time to feel down. He was going to see Sherlock again. Separation had been hard on him, even harder than he’d imagined it would be. No matter what he’d find back home, it’d be Sherlock. Whether he had a boyfriend, or was furious with the way John had left without sparing him a glance, it’d still be Sherlock. John would still be able to admire him from the safety of his backyard, and that was something that would be worth all the pain his heart could take. It would even be worth a wound - it’d be worth many wounds- to be near him again.

He smiled and patted Molly’s hand. “Yeah, I bet. He is a nutter.”

“You love him for it.”

“Have I told you about the time he upended a bowl of porridge over a girl’s head at school because she thought the stars were beautiful?”

“What?” Molly laughed.

“Yeah. He was irked that she wouldn’t agree with him that the sun was the only one that mattered.” He giggled. “He didn’t see how the rest of the stars could be useful, so he thought them irrelevant.”

“Oh my god!”

He laughed. “When she insisted that the stars were beautiful anyway, she found herself covered in oatmeal. She started shrieking, and then, of course, Sherlock got quite a talking to in the middle of the cafeteria by one of the teachers.”

“How old was he?”

“Fourteen.”

“Good God!”

John dissolved into laughter once again at the incredulous look on Molly’s face. “He’s very serious about the solar system.”

“I can tell.”

The laughter in the car suddenly ceased.

“Do you mind if I spend some time with him tomorrow? You know…” He trailed off, too embarrassed to push out the word _alone._

However, he wasn’t the sort to make friends with idiots. Molly grasped his meaning immediately and nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just go walk around a bit, see the neighbourhood, and visit the stores. I’ve had quite enough of you anyway.”

John grinned at her. “Thanks, Molls! You’re the best!”

“No problem, Watson.”

They made it to the Watson residence just past midnight. They were exhausted after a term of serious studying, so they said goodnight and went to their separate rooms. John, excitedly, checked Sherlock’s window as soon as he got to his room. However, the lights were off, so he got into his bed and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to take him and deliver him to a day with Sherlock Holmes only a few meters away from him like he should be.

 

_John Watson (21)_

He looked down the street once more before he allowed Harry to lead him into the house. She closed the door behind them, leaving the faint smell of flowers outside. Did cyclamens and snowdrops have a fragrance? In any case, they were in the backyard, so the smell probably couldn’t reach him. He considered the thought of olfactory hallucinations but dismissed them after a moment. He hadn’t experienced anything like this before now. It was probably just a fluke.

Luckily, it was already past bedtime for his parents. He didn’t particularly wish to be in their presence unless he had to. He had no idea why Harry was here, and without her family on top of it. He certainly wouldn’t have come if they’d insulted and degraded him like that, and he knew the sole reason they hadn’t was because they were clueless about who their son was. As it was, the only thing that could bring him here had been the thought of Sherlock, and it seemed like the other man hadn’t felt the same.

“We don’t have winter flowers at the store. I wonder why.”

Harry looked up from the romance novel she was engrossed in to consider her brother. “Um, I have no idea, Johnny.”

“They must be difficult to grow.” He sounded wistful as he went on. “You know, if you don’t give them enough light or water- and on time-, they’ll just shrivel and die. Too much is also a problem. You need to know how to take care of each flower precisely. Flowers are delicate things.”

“Do you have one at home?”

“A flower? No. I don’t have the time to take on something like that what with work and school. It’d end up withered in a week.”

“Maybe get a cactus?” She grinned.

“Ooo, I can get a pretty one! Like- what was the name of that pink flowering one?”

Harry shrugged.

“Oh yeah, rebutia! You’d think something so prickly couldn’t be beautiful, but it’s gorgeous. I’ll show you a picture sometime.”

“Alright.”

Silence fell for a few minutes before John spoke up once more in a quiet voice.

“He’s mad I wasn’t here in the summer.”

“You don’t know that.” Harry countered.

He shook his head. “No, I know that. I know him. Everything was perfectly fine the last time we saw each other. What else could be the reason?”

“Maybe, he had something important to do, John. His whole world doesn’t revolve around you.”

Even though it was unhealthy to wish otherwise, the truth in his sister’s words cut deeply. “Right.”

She saw through him right away. “Oh, don’t be like that. I’m not saying he doesn’t care about you, but let’s face it, you don’t know anything that goes on in his life. Anything could have happened.”

John knew the only time Sherlock hadn’t looked at him was when he was taking another man up to his room to let him- He didn’t want to think about that horrible day. What if he had taken up a lover? He didn’t know John couldn’t have been here in the summer because he’d been working. What if this was it?

“Maybe, he has a boyfriend.” The words spilled out before he knew what he was saying. He blushed at the pitying look Harry gave him.

“Maybe.” She scooted closer to him and patted his shoulder awkwardly. “John, you have to get over him. This is never gonna go anywhere. If something were to happen, it’d have happened by now. You have to give it up for both your sakes.”

John knew she made sense. He’d always known this wasn’t normal. They had been caught in an infinite loop, where something that was supposed to trigger the next step didn’t work and only directed them back to the beginning again. They only looked, fully aware of each other’s feelings, yet, it was never enough to set things into motion. John was tired. Sherlock must have been as well. Maybe, it was time to call it quits.

Of course, it was not as easy as that. If what it took was only a few words from Harry, he could have done it on his own years ago. That night, in bed, he tossed and turned for hours, getting up every once in a while to look into Sherlock’s old room just to make sure he hadn’t arrived after they’d gone in. The room stayed dark, with the curtains drawn, and sleep continued to elude him. He received the morning with tired lids and bags under his eyes, not quite knowing if he’d ever again welcome it in this room. It was certainly not welcome now.

 

_John Watson (24)_

John hung up the phone with a heavy sigh and took a sip from his horrible cup of coffee. His mum and dad had been pestering him to visit on Christmas yet again. It was the fourth time they were calling this week. He’d finally managed to get out of it, but he suspected he’d have to go next year to shut them up for another couple of years.

The coffee in this cafe had been his saviour many a day, when he was too busy to sleep or too sleepy to work. The service was always impeccable. However, today was an exception. They’d hired a new barista, and in his enthusiasm to serve customers well, he didn’t let them order their own drinks. His refusal to listen to people and his confidence in his own talents reminded John of Sherlock. Maybe that was why he hadn’t said anything when the boy added sugar to his drink, and dear God was it vile.

He sat at his table, watching the boy order both colleagues and customers around, as he breathed through his nose in order to save his taste buds from a sugar assault. God, he missed Sherlock. He’d been trying and partially succeeding at not-constantly-thinking about the man, but sometimes, a powerful yearning would situate itself in his chest and refuse to budge. He realized now, with his eyes following the strangely charming barista, that he liked that feeling and didn’t want it to disappear. It made him feel like he hadn’t lost sight of who he was. He longed not to be cured of it, but he was afraid time would erase every trace of love he had for the man and turn it into nothing more than a pleasant memory.

He resolved to go back home next Christmas to keep the delightful pain alive in his chest. It didn’t make him cry or fall into throes of depression anymore. It was just a reminder that Sherlock was always within him, a part of him that was irreplaceable. He made John who he was. Therefore, being in his childhood home’s backyard again, even without Sherlock there to keep watch, would be a fitting ritual to give meaning to his life.

 

_John Watson (25)_

John found his arms full of a little monster as soon as he exited his car.

“Hello, little man.”

“Uncle John!”

He hugged his nephew back. “Missed me?”

Jack had started rattling on about something or other, when his eyes caught a sight he hadn’t dared hope to see again. He let go of the boy and nodded along to his stories as he gorged himself on the dreamlike vision in front of him. Sherlock was sitting on a cushion on his parents’ veranda and watching them with a smile on his face.

He wasn’t paying attention to what Jack was saying, and he found himself being dragged to the house by the hand.

“Hold on, hold on! Let me get the presents first.”

Jack let go immediately, excited at the prospect of new toys from his uncle whom he didn’t get to see very often.

“We already gave one of our presents to grandma and grandpa.”

“Oh?” John half-listened to his nephew, as he took the bags out of the car.

“Yeah. They let me have one, and then I gave it to the man next door.”

John dropped the bag he was holding back into the boot.

“He’s very nice. He taught me a game, and then he asked me about you. Do you like him too, Uncle John?”

He slowly spun to look at his nephew. “Um… He asked you about me?”

“Yup!”

John lifted his gaze to the next door veranda and gulped. There he was, lounging there, as if he hadn’t just turned John’s whole world upside down. He felt his heart racing at the meaning behind the gesture. Could he? Was it finally time?

He tried to regulate his overzealous, and possibly panicked, breathing and leant down to put a hand on Jack’s head.

“Why don’t you take these two little bags inside? I’ll be right there.”

Jack grabbed the bags without a response and made his way towards the house.

John closed the boot, leaving the other presents inside for the moment. He took a deep breath and peered at the fence that had separated them all their lives. _No longer_ , he thought and lifted his gaze to look straight into Sherlock’s eyes.

 

_John Watson (25)_

He was transfixed by Sherlock’s quivering lips. Their distinct shape was even more alluring from such a close proximity. Now that he’d crossed the border that had for so long been forbidden for him, his nervousness had been replaced by a powerful hunger for this man.

He insinuated himself on the cushion and felt Sherlock twitch next to him. He was still staring at the two petal-less daisies on his lap, inhaling and exhaling breaths that seemed aborted half-way. John was hit by a wave of affection that was no longer a stranger to him. However, this time, his heart beat as if it was going to jump out of his chest. Blood was pounding in his ears, and it was the loudest noise he’d ever heard.

Cautiously, he moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s chin and lifted his face. Sherlock’s eyes locked onto his, and he saw through his soul, and there it was; a love that had blossomed long ago and would never die.

They beheld each other for an eternity, as if it was the first time each laid eyes on the man in front of him. Then, John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, and all was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song mentioned in this chapter is "Ask" by the Smiths.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my awesome betas [mafm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/pseuds/mafm) and [Victoria](http://trunquility.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Sorry if you've received two emails about updates. There was a slight problem with AO3.

_Mycroft Holmes (31)_

Mycroft was regretting coming home for the first time in his life. It was safe to say this would be his last Christmas here. He’d never been one to regard things passionately. However, he liked being here with his parents, even if it was once every year.

And now, it was ruined thanks to his insufferable little brother. Sherlock had never been a quiet person, but this was over the top even for him. Since they’d started eating dinner, the only time he shut his trap was when Watson was talking. He’d found Sherlock’s melancholy stares at the man to be annoying through the years. Now, he found himself wishing to go back to that.

They were trying to spill out everything they’d meant to say to each other in the past two decades during one dinner. Mummy and Father watched the new couple happily, not wanting to interrupt their first date. They’d surely extend a perpetual invite to Watson after this. It was truly the end of an era.

He’d been trying to tune out the conversation between his brother and his new- was he really new?- lover, when he heard his own name mentioned.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Mycroft could never lose weight. Look at him, he looks fatter than ever.”

“No, no. I’m quite sure he’s thinner than the last time I saw him.”

“You haven’t seen him in years. You must have created an image in your mind that would make you feel more at ease about the obesity plight of our times.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at their childishness, as they both turned to look at him. Then, the two men who were considered adults in the eyes of the law fell into a fit of giggles.

He wasn’t quite sure what had prompted them to take the ever-avoided next step. All he knew was, all of a sudden, he’d found himself with a happy younger brother and, well, another happy younger brother, and he was certain he did not have the patience for that.


End file.
